


Understumbling Stewards

by wrabbit



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Implied Blanky/Crozier, Implied Jopson/Crozier, M/M, Maybe no one's fucking Francis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:14:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29360103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrabbit/pseuds/wrabbit
Summary: Mr. Blanky is subjected to a strange seduction.
Relationships: Thomas Blanky/Thomas Jopson
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	Understumbling Stewards

**Author's Note:**

> If you like to mix your Blanky/Jopson with your Blanky/Crozier, this can be read as a sequel or prequel to [Other Duties Owing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29114703). 
> 
> Written for The Terror Rarepair Week 2021, Day 4: "Shameless Flirting."

Thomas Blanky is introduced to Thomas Jopson a few days out of Greenhithe. He peers at the prim young man gliding about and posing himself in the shadows like a phantom with a tea tray, and thinks he won't last the month. Francis would either break him in, or he'd flee. 

Later, he learns, Jopson isn't the man who was originally assigned to Terror, but he is the steward who served with Captain Crozier in Antarctica. Thomas tries to think of anything Francis might have mentioned about such a steward and can't recall.

He is a quiet neighbor, at least, like a good little ghost. He doesn't pray out loud each morning and night like Lieutenant John Irving does, bunked up on the other side of Thomas' berth. 

Thomas has never seen much call for stewards. He didn't think Francis did either, peevish old grump that he is. It's an odd bit of navy flummery - a grown man tasked to keep the officers serviced and dressed, like little princes who can be trusted with all things great but none so small as their own buttons. An indicator of everything sick with the service, in Thomas' opinion. 

Francis could manage a button or two, and even lift his arms above his shoulders and reach below his knees to see to the rest. 

Perhaps he notices the captain is looking a little neater about the cuffs and whiskers than in past days. If he spares a thought for it, Thomas puts it down to pride of command, or, more likely, spite of a certain be-cloaked and be-ribboned commander. 

He certainly doesn't expect to step into the captain's cabin one morning to discover Mr. Jopson tucked up between the captain's thighs. When Thomas' wild eyes have cleared he sees that Jopson is holding a razor to Francis' slicked up face. 

"He's quite skilled," Francis comments when Thomas sputters to a stop in the doorway. "And it's his duty," he adds wryly. 

"Is it?" Thomas isn't so sure about that. He hasn't had occasion to visit other captains during their daily necessities, but he thought a steward usually gave a man some space after stropping the blade and preparing the toilette. At least amongst their sort. 

He eyes Jopson's knees pressed to the captain's seat between his legs. "Does he brush your hair, too?" he asks before he can help himself.

Francis smiles fondly up at Jopson, who answers without raising his eyes from the blade he's dragging neatly up the captain's neck. "I see to all of the captain's needs."

He lifts the razor when Francis huffs out a laugh. 

Thomas shakes his head. "You know what, I'll come back later."

"Thomas! Your captain commands your report."

"Command it later!"

He finds Jopson on deck that evening, smoking a rolled cigarette and watching the sun set. Thomas leans against the rail beside the steward and squints into the hazy orange clouds. 

Jopson glances at him when he taps his pipe on the rail and announces, "I owe you an apology. About what I said earlier. About brushing the captain's hair. It was uncalled for, and I apologise."

Jopson takes a drag off his cigarette. "I do brush his hair," he says. 

"You what?" Thomas turns to look at him. "Oh. Aye. You're joking." 

"Do you think so?" Jopson directs a curious smile at the horizon. 

"God damn it, lad."

Thomas packs his pipe out of the wind, rubbing and pressing the tobacco in with his fingers before turning back to the water. 

"Thought you didn't have a sense of humor," he says after a while, settling down into it. 

"I've never joked in my life," Jopson replies, primly. "I told you I care for all the captain's needs."

"All of them?" Thomas has to ask. 

Jopson glances aside, doesn't quite wink. 

Thomas blows smoke out of his nose on a surprised laugh. "So, we're good, then?"

Jopson shrugs. "Yeah," he says. He drops his cigarette overboard and strolls off. 

"Bye," Thomas calls after him. 

\---

Thomas spends more time with Francis as they get settled in a routine, racing out summer and fair weather to the day when Thomas' expertise will come out to play. 

He's on watch one evening, riding a series of squalls that roll over Terror with a great clatter and blast. It's the most interesting thing to happen in weeks and Thomas whoops into the great, godly gusts of wind that flatten him on the rigging, even as Francis marches about and shouts until they're steadied. 

Back in the great cabin, Thomas scrapes what's left of his soaked tobacco out onto a plate and takes the glass Francis shoves in his face. 

He tries not to watch as Jopson takes the captain's coat and waistcoat and comes back to help him strip the wet shirt off his back. 

Thomas steps back when Jopson approaches him next. He shakes his sleeves out, spraying the floor. "I'm good." 

"Let him help," Francis says. He's drying his hair and face with a blanket and looking awfully naked and pink above the belt. "Jopson, go find Mr. Blanky some dry clothes."

"Right away, sir."

"Wait!" Thomas holds up a finger and gulps his whisky. "Mr. Blanky will retire to his berth and undress his own bloody self, how's that for a plan?" 

He takes the plate with his wet tobacco. When he comes back, he can't help but notice that Francis' hair has been combed down. 

Jopson, swinging by with the teapot, has a pointed look for the damp collar poking out of Thomas' guernsey. 

"Antarctica?" Thomas says, when the steward has let them alone again. 

Francis hums an assent. 

"Didn't you have a different fellow? Why'd you ask for - " Thomas waves in the direction of Jopson's exit.

Francis shrugs. "Couldn't shove him off, I suppose." He peers at Thomas helping himself to more biscuits. 

When Thomas takes himself to bed later, warmer and less steady on his feet, there's a dry blanket on his bed and a towel laid out under his dripping socks and trousers that wasn't there before.

\---

He doesn't mean to, but he has to know. Thomas sidles over to Gibson when he spots the man polishing a tray of silver in the wardroom. He clears his throat. 

"How do you do, Mr. Gibson?"

"Well, sir. And yourself?" Gibson mutters glumly without looking up from his spoon and rag. 

Thomas winces. He takes a step to go. "Do you, uh," he says, thinking better of it and turning back. "Do you stewards usually..."

"Yes?"

"What sorts of, er, personal things do you do, for the officers? Their ablutions, you know?"

"I don't know what you mean. Sir."

Thomas squints at Gibson, who is now stiff as a board and looking nervously between Thomas and the open door. 

"Are you alright, lad?"

"I - "

He tilts his head back and waits. 

"I'd ask you to be more specific, sir," Gibson says finally, whitening. "If you must. I will try to answer you honestly."

"Oh." Thomas blinks. "Well. Do you shave their faces, comb their hair, that sort of thing? Or do they do it themselves?"

"I - No, not usually." 

"Do you help them dress, take their clothes off?"

Gibson looks positively hunted now, ready to froth even though Thomas is speaking to him like he might a shy child, or a madman. 

"I'd beg you not to ask anything else of me, sir," Gibson says, and adds a strangled plea: "Please." 

"Aye. Certainly." Thomas nods. He shakes his head. He nods again and tries to offer Gibson a reassuring smile before he flees.

What odd creatures these stewards were, he thought. Lunatics, all of them. 

\---

Thomas wonders if Jopson has some kind of beacon system for when he's not around to be shouted up - the nearest lieutenant alerts a mate who calls a boy who fetches the steward, or if Jopson has worked out how far he can stray at any given time of day without being called.

He must get his peace in the morning to forenoon, when Francis is dead to the world or trying to be. Thomas is surprised when Jopson sits next to him in the mess one dark squinty hour, up and about when Francis is sure to be down.

"Good morning, Mr. Jopson," he says, hoping for a normal one.

"Good morning, Mr. Blanky." Jopson sets down his plate and passes Thomas one of the tin mugs he is holding. 

"Oh," Thomas groans when he smells coffee. "I could kiss you." 

"Perhaps later."

He glances suspiciously at the steward sat next to him on the storage bench, breaking up his beans and biscuit with his fork. 

"What are you doing up?"

"It's the only time I can get down to the orlop," Jopson says without looking up from the mash he is making of his breakfast. "For the washing."

Thomas looks down into the mug he's holding in both hands. He shouldn't. He really shouldn't. "Yeah, alright," he says. 

Appointment made, Jopson digs into his beans like he's running late for it while Thomas savors his coffee. 

"Slow down, lad. There won't be a queue."

Jopson gulps his coffee. "Oh, no," he says. "I need to get the captain up."

Thomas grunts. "Shaved and brushed?"

"Among other things."

Jopson picks up his plate and scoots off before Thomas knows what to say to that. 

Jopson is toying with him, obviously. Even so, Thomas can't help but feel like he's swiping the sheets from Francis' mattress. 

Francis isn't fucking his steward.

Of course not.

But he shouldn't. 

He won't. 

Francis would be furious.

He follows Jopson downstairs to the captain's pantry later that day. 

"I've actually, er, never done this before," Jopson whispers, raising an eyebrow as he turns to face Thomas in the cramped closet. He slides the door closed, abruptly shutting them into the musty, swirling dark with no bearings but the stack of crates Thomas can feel behind his back. There's a hint of stale whisky in the air and he can taste Jopson's breath, hot on his face. 

"Oh," Thomas says. "Well." 

He's trying to think of something comforting to say when he feels fingers at his belt, unbuckling it and tugging his shirt loose with nimble, practiced motions. 

"Uh, let me know if you need anything," is what he comes up with as his flies are popped.

The advantages of consorting with stewards, Thomas marvels, and he braces himself against the crate nearest to hip, hoping he won't overturn anything.

He hisses at the first touch of ice to his prick. Before Thomas can voice a more specific complaint, Jopson is rubbing his hands together and breathing over his palms to warm them. 

"Oh," Thomas sighs when he's taken in hand again. The way Jopson handles his cock isn't shy, at least. "You're full of it again. You do this."

"Every morning," Jopson murmurs, in his serving tone, and now Thomas is going to hear that the next time he glides by with the teapot. "Twice... when required."

Thomas groans quietly, half in annoyance and half in pleasure as he pushes into a teasing drag. There's an edge of light around the door and Thomas thinks he can see Jopson smiling, a glint in the vicinity of his eyes. 

He realises he's never seen the steward grin, not properly, nor heard him laugh. He wants to.

"Slow down." He covers Jopson's hand when it chafes and guides him to tug, just so. "I'm not a, a - oh - " 

"Like this, sir?" 

"Stop saying that."

Thomas almost jumps out of his boots at an unexpected scrape to the neck, Jopson's face not being so well shaven as he keeps the captain. He's lifting a hand to push Jopson's head away, but then he kisses, or sucks, or bites - all Thomas registers is a sharp-wet curl that's sending him over the edge. 

He has enough presence of mind to pull out his handkerchief and cover Jopson's hand with his own, half-surprised the steward doesn't already have one at the ready.

Not so ready to kiss this man, and, as always, disturbed by the conversation, Thomas gets down on his knees. He nearly concusses himself on yet another rattling pallet of whisky.

There really is an impressive amount of it, even at a glimpse, lining the shelves and packed up on all sides. Thomas spares a thought for Francis - yet another thing he can't ask the captain - and takes Jopson's cock into his mouth by feel in the dark. 

Thankful to discover a manageable bit of tackle, Thomas sucks him down and gets to it. He is gratified to hear Jopson bite back a shout.

"You've a lass at home?" Thomas asks, just for something to say when he stands up. 

He thinks he sees Jopson shake his head, still leaning on a crate and catching his breath.

"Was that really your - ?"

"What?" 

"Er, first time on board?"

"First with the likes of you," Jopson answers quietly. Thomas doesn't know what that means, either.

Knuckles tap his stomach. Thomas tries not to squirm when Jopson finds his fly. The sensation of another man's hands tucking his shirttails down to his stones is terrifically unsettling, and now he's thinking about Francis and his damn steward again without meaning to. He buckles his own belt and is silent while Jopson sorts himself out. 

At first brush of fingers to his cheek, Thomas is afraid he is going to be kissed. A clammy palm closes tightly over his mouth and chin. 

"Jopson! Are you down there?"

Thomas' eyes widen on the shifting, breathing shadows. It's their captain. Jopson slips out and shuts the door on him in a flash. 

Alone in the captain's sot box, Thomas feels out the shape of a crate, careful not to lean in any direction and make a noise. He wonders if he's going to have to settle in and crack a bottle open.

He doesn't think that sounds like such a terrible way to spend an hour or two, actually, but Jopson returns within the minute and shoos him out, keys in hand. 

"If you've been fucking Francis this whole time I'll be very annoyed," Thomas mutters before they part ways. 

"Haven't you?" 

He thinks he sees Jopson grin before he skips upstairs.


End file.
